


Revelations

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-04
Updated: 2005-11-25
Packaged: 2019-01-19 23:20:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12420330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: The original rewrite of Deconstruct, which is now, itself, going to be originally rewritten. It will soon change into its own, separate story. To find the real Deconstruct, look on my profile.





	1. From Misery

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

  
**Deconstruct, A Memoir**  
By Solarism

_Chapter One–From Misery_

 

{The Shins — New Slang}

 

* * *

The world never stops spinning. It doesn’t pause, it doesn’t slow down, and it doesn’t speed up. It doesn’t go in reverse and it doesn’t wait for you to catch up with it. It doesn’t love you, it doesn’t hate you, it doesn’t comfort you, it doesn’t hold you in its arms, and it doesn’t harbor grudges, either. It lies to you, but it isn’t out to get you, it gives you sunshine more than it gives you rain, and it changes you in every little thing that it shows you. Every single second, with every single whirling spin, you change.

This is what I have learned the hard way.

When you’re young, you don’t need to think of the future because to you, the future is nothing. Life is vast when you’re young, and no one ever realizes just how quickly it dwindles itself down until they’ve fallen off the edge of it. That’s the reason children run and dance and play through life and never stop to check to see if they’re going to fall off; they ride on life as they ride a carousel, laughing and shouting and waving to their loved ones, mesmerized by the bright lights and the happy melodies, thoughtless, carefree, and trusting. Children don’t need to think of the way that the world spins or the way that every exhale means that they are being inevitably brought closer to death.

This is a secret–the fine print they don’t tell you about when you initially sign on the dotted line.

It’s easy to laugh the loudest when you don’t know what you’re laughing about.

* * *

When I was small, I would sit in my mother’s lap in our garden and watch the butterflies float past, gurgling and pointing at them in delight. If they came close enough, I’d try to reach out and snatch them, fascinated by their bright colors and their pretty, fluttering movements. Mother would always wrap her arm a little tighter around me and pull me closer to her stomach, cooing into my hair that it was called a “butterfly”� and that I mustn’t touch it, or else it wouldn’t be able to fly anymore.

My sister, Petunia, would tug at her skirt and look up at her with wide, blue eyes. “Mummy,”� she’d say, “the baby doesn’t know what a flutterby is! I know what a flutterby is, Mummy.”�

“Yes you do, my darling,”� Mother would tell her, giving her a fond look. “What are you making with the sticks, Petunia? It looks like you’ve been busy while Mummy’s been showing Lily the butterflies.”�

“It’s a motorcar,”� Petunia would tell her. “See, it has the windows here and here, and here are the wheels. They are rocks, Mummy. And, ummm, this is the front and this is the back. It’s a motorcar like they drive on the streets, like in London.”�

“Just like in London, darling,”� Mother would reply with a smile to Petunia, but it was my soft little head she’d kiss as I’d squirm and reach out for another brown and gold butterfly–the very beginnings of what would begin a terrible sibling rivalry. I’d stretch out my plump little arm and open my mouth in joy, gurgling, wishing for all the world that I could run after the butterflies and chase them around the yard. 

Mother would laugh and tuck her wispy red hair behind her ears with one hand, holding me firmly with the other, with her eyes on my sister and her mind on my father. Life was happy for me then, but it had already begun to take its toll on my mother. Her laugh wasn’t as lighthearted as it had once been, when she’d lived with Father and when she’d been pregnant, when she’d been to America and seen the Statue of Liberty, when she’d had dreams of being a dancer in a little theater on the corner of St. Margaret’s and Main…

But my mother always held me, and she always smiled for Petunia, and she always told me I mustn’t touch, or else the butterfly wouldn’t be able to fly anymore, and then the butterfly would die.

These are my earliest memories.

I remember that my first toddling steps were in the garden, sure enough in the pursuit of one of the butterflies. I was always chasing the unattainable, and though my mother had warned me time and time again not to touch them, I thought that if I could just get close enough, maybe I could ride the wind as the butterflies did, too. I wanted their wings in that greedy way children have; I wanted to be their color, with their spots and markings, with their curious little tentacles, with their ability to dance on flower petals and escape the garden when they wanted to, to fly over the fence and out of the country.

I wanted to be free.

I remember that the garden was small, and that our house was small, and that both were clean and beautiful. We didn’t live in London because it was too expensive, and Mother said that she hated it there for all the smoke besides, but we had a small little place in the countryside where lots of things would grow. Mother planted lots of flowers–petunias mostly at first, and then tulips, and then marigolds, and then pansies, and then wild roses.

When I was old enough to understand that she’d never planted any lilies, I asked her if it meant that she loved me any less.

She said, “No, my darling. It means that I love you all the more because you’re the only little Lily that I have. I don’t want to share you with the garden because I want you all for myself. You’re very special, you understand.”�

And I smiled and hugged her leg and said, “Oh yes, Mummy! I understand!”�

Several years later, I heard Petunia ask her a similar question. “Oh, Mummy, why did you call me Petunia? Lily can’t even _pronounce_ it.”�

“Petunias are my favorite flowers, love,”� my mother answered in a calm, comforting voice. “I wanted to be reminded of them every time I looked at you. You’re very beautiful, just like the petunias in our yard.”�

“They have five petals,”� Petunia said, somehow doubtfully, as though the number made them somehow less glorious.

“A lot of flowers do,”� my mother said with a laugh. She smoothed Petunia’s blonde hair and kissed her forehead. “Mother’s tired now, but why don’t you skip out to the garden and pick some petunias from the yard? We could put them in a bowl in the kitchen so that everyone who comes to lunch will see them and say how lovely they are.”�

Petunia’s face lit up and she kissed my mother on the cheek, shutting her eyes and letting her little golden eyelashes hit her cheeks. My sister glowed when she was happy; her skin flushed in a way that mine never really could. She looked like a sweet blonde cherub–like God had given my mother a little body full of sunshine instead of a daughter.

The kitchen door banged shut behind Petunia as she ran out into the backyard.

“Mummy,”� I whispered, poking my head around the corner, almost shyly. “Do you love Petunia better than me?”�

My mother turned to me, surprised to see half my face creeping round the doorway, and held out her arms. I ran to her and threw my arms around her legs, pressing my plump little cheeks against her thighs, desperately hoping that she would say she loved me best because she’d named me _Lily_.

She crouched down and threw her arms around me, embracing me and surrounding me with her scent–a soft, lilac sort of perfume scent that was in her pillows and in her clothes–and whispered back to me something to soothe my fears away.

“Lily,”� she said, saying my name delicately, “I love you and I love Petunia. I love you differently, but I love you equally. You will always be my little butterfly.”�

She kissed the top of my head, burying her soft lips into my shock of red hair, and held me tightly to her body. I breathed a sigh of relief and knew that things would be all right.

My mother’s diplomacy once knew no bounds.

  
* * *

There were darker things than chasing butterflies and picking petunias.

The world kept spinning and kept changing my family–my sister into an older, nosier, talkative young woman; my mother into a sadder, lonelier person who turned to alcohol more than once during the day to solve her problems; and me into someone curious, guilty, and peculiar.

When I was six years old, unusual things began to happen to me, and every time that I escaped a near-death or behaved strangely, my mother would screw up her face and set a drinking glass heavily down on the kitchen counter, both out of unhappiness and relief. I was too young to understand that she wasn’t drinking because of me–too young, by far, to understand the complexities of her life–but the way that she gave me those sorrowful looks made me want to never go to her with my problems again.

I fell out of a high tree once despite my mother’s repeated warnings not to climb it, but instead of breaking a limb, I floated to the ground as though the wind was carrying me in its merciful arms. I’d always wanted to fly–to be like a butterfly, to ride the wind–and when I’d rushed excitedly inside to tell my mother what had happened, I was crushed when she gave me a stern, disbelieving look.

“Why must you frighten Mother with stories like that?”� she asked, and I noticed for the first time that her forehead looked far more furrowed than it had when I was younger.

I didn’t know how to answer her, so I ran to my room to hide. Hiding under the covers of my bed would become a frequent event over the next few years. I couldn’t explain the strange things that happened to me–the way I could heat pebbles by touching them at times, even on the coldest winter days–but I felt as though I’d been given a strange, mysterious gift from God all the same.

Once I tried to show my sister the way I could heat the pebbles, but she only glared at me and retorted with a sharp comment. “Anybody can warm pebbles in their hands, dummy,”� she told me, feeling quite superior to my lower level of intelligence. “It’s called body heat and everyone has it. You’re not special, or anything.”�

“Mummy says I’m special!”� I’d flared, dropping the pebbles with shame. I thought they’d been warmer than my hands… I thought that they’d been hot.

“Mum doesn’t know what she’s talking about,”� Petunia said, rolling her eyes. “She’s distraught that she doesn’t have a Mr. Right and far too busy to care about you, besides.”�

“A Mr. Right?”� I asked, feeling a slight pain behind my eyes–a frequent occurrence when talking to my sister those days.

“I overheard the neighbors talking,”� she sniffed. “They say that mother’s drinking away what little money we have left because she doesn’t have a husband. They look down on us, you know. They say it isn’t normal that a woman should raise two children all alone. We’re the oddballs of the neighborhood because of her.”�

“She doesn’t drink,”� I said, immediately defensive of the mother I loved so much.

“What about that brown stuff she’s always gulping?”� Petunia asked, raising her eyebrows rather cruelly. “Don’t you ever wonder why she keeps it in the cupboard above the stove? It’s because it’s alcohol and it’s dirty. She doesn’t want us to touch it.”�

“I don’t believe you!”� I said, raising my voice slightly, the pain in my head sharpening itself pointedly. The priest at church always warned children of the dangers of sin–of cigarettes, of alcohol, of sex, of _evil_. I knew that my mother wasn’t evil. She had never been anything but kind…

I wanted to hit my sister then. I wanted to make her shut up and not say anything more, anything that could make me doubt my mother’s place in Heaven alongside God. My mother was good. I knew she was.

Petunia was only lying. Only kidding. Only being her usual mean self.

Petunia’s eyes went wide. She looked positively wicked as she hissed, “We’re poor, dummy! Haven’t you seen the bills laying around the kitchen? Haven’t you heard the knocks at the door at all hours? Those are the tax men… they want to come in and take Mum away because she doesn’t have a husband!”�

Eyes wide, I opened my mouth and began to _scream_.

* * *

“Lily!”� Arabella Figg called a little too shrilly, putting her hand on my shoulder and giving me a playful shrug. She laughed a tinkling movie star laugh. “Lily. You’re daydreaming, aren’t you?”�

I shook myself quietly out of my reverie. “Mmm,”� I said, glancing at her with a mixture of fondness and irritation. “I wasn’t daydreaming, Bella. I was remembering.”�

She gave me an indifferent shrug, rummaging around and throwing a few random cosmetic products out of her book bag before pulling out a thin black flask. I recognized it as Arabella’s drinking flask and frowned slightly. She liked her firewhiskey too much. I hoped she didn’t intend to get teary-eyed drunk while we were supposed to be studying.

(It struck me as amusing in a bitter way–I could go away to school but I could never really escape alcohol. It was everywhere. It was the 70’s.)

And then the sun hit her face–just a slight shine–and she was illuminated with the flask to her lips. She smiled as she drank, as the powerful, burning liquid raced down her throat to her gut, and she closed her eyelids with vehemence.

I didn’t understand her. I couldn’t understand her. She was my best friend, but we were fourteen years old. She was always racing ahead–illuminated, glowing, basking in those golden afternoon rays of sunlight–while I was stuck in neutral, still very much an awkward child.

I didn’t drink with her. How could I?

A splendid feeling of isolation hit me as a butterfly floated by.

“You and your silly daydreaming,”� Arabella said, screwing the cap back onto the flask and falling backward onto the grass. “You live in your own little world, don’t you?”� She laughed, licking her lips slowly, sensually. “It must be nice.”�

I tapped my quill absentmindedly against my ink well.

“I wasn’t,”� I said.

“Mmm,”� said Arabella, a slow, faint, flattering blush creeping into her cheeks.

I looked over to her, trying to determine what made her up–what her molecules consisted of and whether they were made up of drops of alcohol and movie star giggles or not–and realized that I was tired. I was so tired, perhaps of trying to study and getting nowhere, perhaps of Arabella, perhaps of the word alcohol, perhaps of everything.

Sometimes, life got to be much too serious. I felt trapped. Where was there to go but down, down, down the rabbit hole?

Life was swallowing me, even in the bright sunshine next to my best friend in the world. Splendid isolation amongst the butterflies, indeed.

I laid back on the soft grass, strands of my dark red hair mixing with Arabella’s brunette, and closed my eyes to block out the sights and the sounds and the memories and the words.

We were in silence.

Soon, I was asleep.

* * *

“Hey, stop thrashing,”� a boy’s voice said with strange authority. “What’s her name, Remus? Arabella? Arabella–no, Arabella, stop thrashing. We’re trying to help you here, but you’re going to have to stop moving around like that.”�

“You’re tickling me!”� Arabella shrieked, laughing her head off, ignoring whoever the boy was with recklessness. “Let go of me or I’ll kick you! I’ll get my wand and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine! You think you’re a match for me? Ha! I’ll show you a match!”�

I opened my eyes blearily, the sound of Arabella’s yelping pounding its way into my head. I had the most horrible headache I’d ever had in my life, but I was afraid. I couldn’t see very well–I could only make out five blurry figures, one of them shaking and rolling on the ground a few feet away from me, which I thought was Arabella. I rubbed my eyes quickly, hoping to God no one was hurting her.

“Bloody hell! You are all bastards! I’ll have you expelled! Thrown out! Hexed! To Azkaban with the lot of you, bastards!”� screeched Arabella.

She might have sounded more menacing if she wasn’t teary-eyed from all of her drunken laughter.

“What a pain in the arse,”� laughed another boy’s voice calmly.

“Bastards!”� was Arabella’s only reply.

“Ugh, she knocked my glasses off!”� came a third voice.

“I’ve got them–”�

“Thank you, Peter.”�

“Bastards, bastards!”�

I rolled over with a silent groan and sat up. With a jolt, I realized that four boys holding broomsticks were standing over Arabella, who had somehow moved a few feet away. James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew–the Marauders–were in front of me. Suddenly, I had no idea what to do.

* * *

“Well, mates, we have to get her to the Tower,”� James Potter said to the other boys with a wicked glance at me–apparently, he’d realized I had just woken up–with an air as though he was simply pointing out the obvious. Sirius Black, who could’ve passed for his slightly taller twin, gave him a perceptive laugh, as if to tell him that he was being a know-it-all.

“Right,”� Remus Lupin replied, “but if she’d only get up and walk, maybe it would be a little bit easier… We can’t help her if she’s just going to hit us and knock my glasses off.”�

Sirius shook his head and offered Arabella a hand up. “Come on, sweetheart,”� he said, “you may be cute, but you’re drunk off your arse. May I have the honor of escorting you back to your dorm room?”�

The fourth boy, Peter, laughed. James gave him a flick on the ear.

Arabella took Sirius’ hand enthusiastically and he pulled her up with a cringe on his face as she attempted to squeeze his hand off. “Nice to meet you too, sugar cakes,”� Arabella said, giggling at him with large, curious eyes. “I’m not drunk at all, and you’re an awful liar if you tell people that.”�

James raised his eyebrows at me, still rubbing his forehead with one hand, but I was too shocked over the whole ordeal to make any sort of response. He looked away from me and I suddenly felt that I’d missed my opportunity to make him think that I was interesting. _Wonderful, Lily_ , I thought, _you just gaped at him like a goldfish. What a way to treat James Potter, of all people…_

“A liar, am I? Well,”� Sirius continued with a smile on his face, rather enjoying Arabella’s outlandish behavior, “be that as it may, I think I might just have to walk you back to your dorm room, anyway.”�

Arabella reeled, giving him a suspicious look, but before she could fall over, Remus quickly came up behind her and pushed her back upright. She didn’t seem to notice that she’d almost hit the ground again, and instead just shook her head and gave Sirius a huge snort. “If you promise to keep your hands to yourself, I suppose you could walk me back and tuck me in. But only if you absolutely promise! You don’t have a chance with me, I swear it.”�

It was Sirius’ turn to raise his eyebrows at me, and again, I stood there unable to think of a response. He said to Arabella, “Listen, princess. I don’t want a chance with you, I just want to help you get off our Quidditch pitch. We need to practice and we can’t bloody well have two girls here to watch us.”�

“We weren’t–”� I suddenly found my voice, haltingly. “We weren’t going to look at you. We were just doing homework.”�

James turned his head sharply and gave me a piercing glance, but didn’t respond. He just shook his head, acting as though I was responsible for all this mess, and turned away to tend to Arabella. “Arabella Figg, right?”� he said to her, and I realized as he said her name that his voice was the one I’d heard first. “Can you walk on your own or do you feel dizzy?”�

“We could always levitate her,”� Peter said to Remus. Remus shrugged.

“I think Princess needs to be carried, or at least hoisted,”� Sirius said, giving Arabella a lewd look. He wrapped one of his arms around her waist before she could protest, and nodded at Remus. “Come on, then. Get her other side and we’ll walk her up there together.”�

“Whoah,”� Arabella hiccupped. “That’s a little close, mister.”�

“I promised to keep my hands to myself,”� Sirius shrugged, “and, besides, it’s either this or we levitate you. If we levitate you, you’ll get all sorts of nasty bumps are bruises because not one of us will give a damn if your head knocks into doors or walls.”�

“Why?”� wailed Arabella suddenly, her eyes wide with alarm as Remus wrapped one of his arms around her other side.

“Because,”� Sirius said in a light voice, “you’re interrupting our practice time, and we _hate_ to be interrupted.”�

“Er–”� I started.

Only Peter looked at me. “Hmmm?”� he asked.

“I think I can get her to the Tower on my own. She’s not heavy… and I don’t want to interrupt your Quidditch practice,”� I told him, glancing nervously at Remus and Sirius, who were getting Arabella to place her arms around their shoulders for support.

“Don’t worry about it,”� Peter shrugged. “We’re not practicing for a match or anything. Remus and I aren’t even on the team. We just wanted a romp.”�

“Still–I could definitely…”� I trailed off as Remus and Sirius began to walk off with a giggling Arabella draped across them, obviously ignoring me.

“I said don’t worry about it,”� Peter said, flashing me a grin. He turned and said, “Hey! Wait for me guys! I can help, too.”� He gave me a glance and then bounded off, shadowing Sirius’ footsteps.

I was left alone with James Potter.

“Who are you?”� he asked, giving me a long, calculating look. My heart sank as he stared at me. I felt as though he was judging every molecule that made me up with his quick, furtive eyes. I didn’t like that I couldn’t see what his expression was–the sun was beginning to set and it shrouded his face, though I knew from his voice that he was probably frowning. He thought that I was irresponsible for letting my friend drink and thrash around the Quidditch pitch. He was annoyed that I was standing there, gawking like an idiot, paralyzed out of wonder and trepidation.

“My name is Lily,”� I told him. “I’m in your year.”�

“Yes, I know that,”� he said, sounding cross. “What I asked was who are you?”�

“I’m–excuse me? I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean…”� I frowned. I said a silent prayer that he wasn’t really as cross as he was coming off. I’d thought about having a conversation with him so many times, and it felt like a sock in my stomach to hear his voice come out as something so hard.

“Are you a spy? If you’re spying for Slytherin’s team, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I’m only a Chaser, and this isn’t a team practice by any means,”� said James.

“What?”� I blinked. “No, no. I swear, it’s nothing like that. I didn’t know that anyone was going to be out here, and even so, I meant to be gone so much earlier than now. I was just doing homework. See? I have my bag. I’m sorry for intruding. I never meant to.”�

I was shocked to hear him laugh. “I’m only joking, Lily,”� he said through his laugh, his voice once again the jovial, dancing thing I recognized from class. He came closer and stuck out his hand, which was large, and said, “My name is James Potter. Forgive me, I just like a good joke.”�

“You mean you’re not mad?”� I asked in relief, taking his hand and shaking it lightly. He had a strong grip.

“Not at all,”� he said. “Sirius might be a little miffed because he was looking forward to lapping Peter three times tonight–he usually only laps him two times–but other than that, it’s okay, really. The Marauders are always glad to be of service.”�

“The Marauders?”� I repeated, my eyes sparkling. “So it’s true what everyone says about you four, then? You’re the four that are behind all of the pranks?”�

James scoffed. “Of course it’s true. Who do you think turned the Potions dungeon red and gold for a week? We even have the detentions to prove it,”� he shook his head. “But–oh, they’re getting far ahead. I really should go now and make sure they don’t take a detour to the kitchens or anything. Remus is usually rather good at keeping Sirius in check, but with your friend in tow, I’m not so sure…”�

“Oh! Arabella!”� I said, my eyes darting to see how far they’d gone. The boys were walking surprisingly quickly.

Without pausing to say good bye to me or to wait for me to start walking with him, James began to jog toward his friends and away from me.

“Hey!”� I shouted at his retreating back. “Wait for me!”�

I picked up a shoe Arabella had kicked off, stuffed it in my bag, and started walking quickly after James to the Gryffindor common room. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

After we’d been walking much too fast for what felt like much too long to my sore legs, I noticed that the silence had stretched too long to be comfortable. I wanted to say something, anything, that would make me seem interesting or intelligent; I wanted James Potter to see me as someone worth knowing. After three years of watching him from a distance, I realized that now was my chance–my chance to finally speak to the boy with all of the tricks up his sleeve–and I knew that I was failing miserably.

I kept sending him little, timid glances hoping and praying that I would think of something to say to him–anything, just anything to ease myself into his good graces. I wanted so badly then for him to just like me; I wanted him to be able to look at me and think, “Oh, that Lily Evans. She’s all right.”�

I wanted to be _all right_.

As though on cue, James tilted his head to one side, a bit of his hair falling in his eyes. “What’s the story, morning glory?”� he asked, a light smile playing across his lips. James was very handsome when he smiled.

“I don’t know what you mean,”� I said, suddenly abrupt, giving him a frown for his efforts at conversation in such a grand contradiction of my feelings. I was being so unintentionally rude–I _knew_ I was being rude; _oh, he must hate me_ , I quickly thought with dread–but he only continued to smile as we walked, sending me quick, quizzical glances every few seconds. He clearly expected there to be more to it than that; more to it than “I don’t know what you mean.”�

I tried to shrug off his gaze uneasily, still wishing for something to talk to him about, for some way to show him what I was really like when I wasn’t feeling so self-conscious. It bothered me when people stared at me–when he stared at me, I felt as though I was in the spotlight. James had a wonderful but strange way of making a person think he or she was the only one in the world he cared for at the moment. “I just don’t know,”� I said finally. “I guess… well, if you really want to know, I guess we were just talking and she’d been drinking and I was feeling a little unstable. She drinks a lot.”�

“Does she really?”� he asked inquisitively, and I mentally scolded myself for giving away a secret. Hogwarts students were not supposed to down firewhiskey until they burst. It was breaking a thousand school rules, which was why it was kept quiet. Why were my guards down?

“Erm,”� I responded, trying to buy some time. My eyes flicked to the nearest tree, searching its long, wind-beaten limbs for some sort of opportune topic of conversation. I found nothing, and my eyes automatically roved ahead, straining to see Arabella and the other three Marauders. How were they moving so quickly? It seemed I had nothing but questions.

James laughed. He had a warm, friendly laugh that seemed to say that it was okay I was behaving like a right idiot. He tossed his broomstick in the air jovially and caught it again with a flourish, as though we were on a fine spring stroll around the lake.

“They walk fast, don’t they?”� he asked, raising his chin ahead toward our friends. He had noticed my nervousness.

“Yes,”� I replied, sucking in another breath. “How do you, er, how do you keep up with them?”�

“Quite easily,”� James said, punctuated with another one of his laughs. His laughs were sporadic. I didn’t understand them. “I’m only sorry that your legs aren’t longer. We could be making so much better time if only you had another six inches on you.”�

I felt a blush rush to my cheeks. “I’m not that short,”� I protested, though mildly. “I’m quite a good height for a girl, or at least I’ve always thought so. I can walk faster, if you want.”�

This was a blatant lie; while James, in good shape from constant Quidditch playing, wasn’t breaking a sweat, I had a cramp in my side and my breath had sped up rather uncomfortably. 

James merely shrugged and glanced at his broom. I didn’t know terribly much about Quidditch–I was by no means a fanatic–but I knew that it, the broom, was new, and that it was an expensive model. It shouldn’t have surprised me. Everyone knew the Potter family was rich; everyone knew that James was used to the best. Still, I couldn’t help but stare at the broomstick and imagine how different our childhoods must have been.

James Potter grew up a rich, pureblooded wizard with parents who loved him. They sent him letters every week at breakfast, and since our first year, out of the corner of my eye, I’d seen his face light up every time he read one of them. I doubted very much that he had ever been exposed to alcoholism, to being poor, to having to share toys with his siblings (if he had any), to having to tuck his mother into bed and pray she didn’t die from alcohol poisoning… Even now, taking care of drunken friends was a strange thing to him.

He seemed strangely innocent.

“I don’t suppose you’re any good at flying?”� James asked, suddenly breaking the silence. He gave me a hopeful look and slowed his pace, holding up his broom for me to see.

I slowed down too, glad to be able to catch my breath. The bottoms of my feet hurt. “I guess I’m all right,”� I said, both massaging the cramp in my side and eyeing his broomstick warily. “Why?”�

“I was just thinking. We could both fit on this, I think,”� he said, stopping now. With a playful toss of his hand, his broom spun up in the air as it had earlier, but instead of falling back to his hand, it hung there this time, in a manner somewhat reminiscent of a loyal dog.

“You want us to fly on that?”� I asked, my eyes wide. I hadn’t flown since flying lessons during our first year. I’d never been the best in our class; that had been, without question, James. Memories came flooding back of my embarrassing attempts at shouting “Up!”� at a broomstick, only to be humiliated as it rolled over and rocked with something that looked suspiciously like laughter. James was the natural flier; surely he had to remember how many tries it had taken me to get my broom to even float? It had been three years, but he and Sirius had laughed at me back then; I was sure of it.

“Well, why not?”� he grinned appealingly. “Really, I think it’s the least you can do, since you and your friend seem to have deprived me of my Quidditch practice this evening.”�

I spluttered. “I–I–I don’t know…”� I shook my head, as if I’d said no, as if it was a done deal.

“I won’t go too fast,”� James said promptly, clearly wheedling. “You can hang on as tight as you want to, even if you strangle me, and I swear I won’t let you fall. It sure beats walking up these hills, at least, doesn’t it? I haven’t walked these things since my first year. Every time I go down to the pitch, I fly back up. It’s easier that way.”�

“I haven’t _flown_ since first year,”� I spluttered again, suddenly afraid as his broom made a bucking motion in the air, as if impatient to get going.

“Please?”� James asked, and that was when I saw his eyes.

_His eyes are deep chocolate brown. They have no ending. They’re huge. You could dive in and never come up for air. Dizzy, dizzy, swirling brown with tiny flecks of black and gold. His eyelashes are the longest I’ve ever seen on a boy, charcoal black and curled perfectly, angelically. Those eyes are controlling eyes. Laughing eyes dance beneath brows of soft ebony…_

Perhaps it was the way the sunlight suddenly struck his face, but for the first time in my life, I fell under the spell of James Potter’s dizzy eyes. From that moment on, I was a believer.

“Okay,”� I said after a few beats, in a half-choked, half-whispering voice.

“Great!”� James laughed, and turned away to hop on the broom. I watched as he moved, always gracefully, and as he swung one leg up and over, sliding perfectly into place. He mounted it naturally, as though he’d been flying since before he could walk. On second thought, I supposed that might not be far from reality. 

I stood, still perplexed by his wonderful hazel eyes, until he started laughing again. “Lily? Are you ready?”�

He offered a large, smooth hand, and with a sudden rush of recklessness, I took it and let him help me up. I was much less graceful than he was, although my body was smaller, and I hurt myself as I sat down behind him, adding a bruised knee to my growing list of injuries for the evening.

“Are you all right?”� he asked, looking over his shoulder with his eyebrows raised.

“Yes,”� I lied, deliberately avoiding looking him in the eyes. “I’m great. Let’s go.”�

“Well,”� James said, his voice laced with joy now that he was going to fly again, “I thought you’d never ask.”� He put his sneakers firmly on the ground, truly an expert in every muscle function, and before the logical side of my brain could scream from fright or beg him to let me down, he had kicked off with tremendous force, and we were in the air.

We were flying. James Potter and I were _flying_ …

I tilted my head upwards towards the clouds, drawing in a sharp breath as we twirled into infinity.

There was nothing more.

* * *

I clung tightly to James’ waist, watching with unsuppressed awe as the world tilted vertically. I fought the knots growing my stomach that were telling me that any second I would fall off and plummet to my death, trying to keep calm. I desperately tried to remember what I knew about broomsticks. Did they–did _this_ designer model–help keep you on? I could feel the cushioning charm, but there was nothing to cling to except a piece of wood and James Potter’s warm body.

He was laughing, speeding upwards much too quickly and much too steeply, showing off as though he was in the middle of some important Quidditch match. I buried my face into his back, my fear and the unnerving feeling of my legs dangling into nothing overcoming my natural physical shyness. I couldn’t find a voice to scream out, to yell at him to stop or to slow down or to bring me back to earth. I just had to hold on, frozen in terror.

“Yes!”� shouted James, still laughing, but before I knew it, we’d leveled out and were hovering in the sky, looking down through the clouds at the top of Hogwarts castle. I took one gasping look down and plunged my face back into James’ back. It was much, much too high… why had he gone so high?

“Did I frighten you too much, Lily?”� he shouted again, but this time to be heard over the rushing air that was all around us instead of out of elation. He let out another sporadic laugh. He always seemed to be laughing, at least a little bit. 

I opened my eyes and pulled myself only an inch away from him so that he would be able to hear me. I shouted back, “You went up too quickly! It was too steep, too fast! I thought you said you wouldn’t!”�

“I’m sorry!”� he yelled, but I could tell he was grinning even if I couldn’t see his face. “I had no idea you were so afraid! Loosen your grip a bit, why don’t you, and take a look around? I promised not to let you fall, and I won’t!”�

“You _swear_ it?”�

“I do!”�

My curiosity overcame my terror, and though I clung to James more tightly than ever, I raised my head and took a look around. I’d never been so high up in the air in my life, and it was both strange and wonderful to be floating in the clouds. I felt that I could see in every direction for a hundred miles. Only in the east was the view slightly obstructed by a hazy gray mountain range, the only thing taller than us for miles.

I pressed myself close to James, feeling extremely frightened again as I stared around at the endless blue expanses, truly realizing for the first time how huge the world was. I stared upward and was greeted by warm sunlight cascading through a higher set of clouds. It warmed my face and my hands, which were strangling James’ middle. He looked up too, shaking his hair free of the mist that had settled on it from our burst through the lower clouds, and laughed at the sky, as though daring it to do anything but shine on us.

“James!”� I yelled, suddenly very aware I barely knew this boy. “We should go back!”�

“Isn’t it _beautiful_?”� he bellowed in response, still laughing.

The dizzy eyes have made him insane, I thought, taking a deep, gulping breath. Our bodies were skin tight and I was beginning to become extremely embarrassed, but I didn’t trust broomsticks or flying enough to give him any room.

“It’s very beautiful!”� I yelled. “You’re very lucky you have no fear!”�

“No fear?”� he yelled back. “I can’t believe you’re afraid! Haven’t you ever been this high before?”�

“Of course!”� I screamed, scrambling to hold onto him as the wind picked up a little.

“Have you really?”�

“No!”� I admitted.

He was clearly grinning again. “You have to come back up here! Say you will!”�

“No!”� I said again.

The wind whipped past us and James let the broom rock a little bit, probably to catch me off guard. “If you say you will, I’ll take us back down!”� he offered. “But you have to promise! You have to mean it!”� I could tell he was laughing. Why was he always laughing?

“I–I promise!”� I yelled, reasoning quickly that I’d never have to follow through with it. Though the sky was indeed very beautiful, I felt sick because of the rocking motion the broomstick was making as it rode the wind, and wanted very desperately to have my feet touch something solid again. “Take me down!”�

“Whatever you want!”� James yelled, still laughing, and began to dive out of the clouds, going faster and steeper than he had going up.

This time, I did scream at him. “JAMES!”� I shouted, feeling sure that he was going to kill both of us. We were hurtling toward the ground in a spiral, going faster than I’d ever seen any Seeker do in any Quidditch match, ever. He was _insane_. “JAMES, SLOW DOWN! PULL UP! PULL UP!”�

With an eloquent twist, he managed to pull up with a good fifteen feet left between us and the ground. I let out a gasp of relief, even removing one hand from his waist to clutch my chest. My heart was going wild, and I was quite convinced it was going to pound its way right out of my body. His crazy flying was giving me a heart attack.

“What are you _doing_?”� I demanded incredulously.

“Hold on,”� he said. “We’re a bit farther than we need to be…”� He leaned forward on his broom and the broom shot off, this time going level with the ground. I whipped my arms back around his waist and glared at the back of his head, feeling more and more ill. Nothing was worth this torture.

“I’m going to go up to Gryffindor Tower,”� James called over his shoulder.

He slowed down and soared gently upwards, heading toward the turret of the unused top of Gryffindor Tower. We passed the stone walls of Hogwarts, sweeping past huge windows that allowed us to gaze inward, doing unneeded loop-de-loops around buttresses, and skimming around in strange patterns all over the castle’s climbing ivy.

We were scaling Hogwarts castle. I couldn’t believe it. Did James Potter do things like this every day?

“You’re crazy,”� I told him as soon as he made a graceful landing on the Tower’s turret. I scuttled off of his broom and backed up into the building, banging my back harshly against the stone wall. “I can’t believe you really fly like that. No wonder you made the Quidditch team your second year!”�

James twirled his broom much as he had earlier on the grounds, gave me a slight shrug, and nodded toward the door. “Perhaps we should see if this thing will open? I’d really hate to have dragged you up here for nothing, though you must admit the loop-de-loops were rather fun…”�

“You mean it might not be open?”� I stared at him, taking in his windswept black hair and his lightly bronzed cheeks, not knowing what to think. Somehow, it felt as though we’d forged a bond when he’d taken me up into the clouds, but he still seemed like a perfect stranger to me in every respect I could think of. I wondered faintly if I’d bruised or scratched his stomach, but decided I didn’t really care as my stomach took another unpleasant lurch.

Without reply, he drew his out his mahogany wand and moved closer to the weather-beaten wooden door. I had no idea that until that day that there even was a door at the top of the Gryffindor Tower; I’d always assumed that the room at the top was simply an unusable attic that strange, homely little beasts lived in. Wizarding households were known for their minor beasts, which generally liked dark places, and I’d always assumed Hogwarts was no exception.

As it turned out, we didn’t have to worry about locked doors, because with a wave of James’ wand a muttered spell, the door clicked open. “Ah, good,”� James smiled. “Sirius remembered to keep it unlocked for me this time.”�

Though I had no idea what he meant, I entered the dark and musty-smelling room as James ushered me in. “Lumos!”� I said, drawing my own wand. 

“Lumos!”� echoed James, and he swung the door shut behind us.

We were greeted by a completely empty room drenched in dust. It seemed that the room had been unused for at least a hundred years. Inches of dust clung to the bare wooden floor and the unfinished walls and made breathing very difficult.

“How disgusting,”� muttered James pleasantly. “We should really do some spring cleaning in here sometime…”� He looked around for a minute fondly, as though he was speaking of renovating a somewhat out-of-date kitchen instead of the top of Gryffindor Tower, and then glanced upward.

I followed his gaze and saw only shadows, but James seemed to take comfort in the darkness. It seemed as though he had been in the room many times before, though I couldn’t fathom why. It was dusty, uncomfortably stuffy, and it had an odd smell to it. “Is there a way down?”� I asked, rather stupidly.

James pointed the light from his wand at the opposite end of the room. A very beat up old door with an ornate knob appeared through the clouds of dust. I coughed and made my way forward, at this point more concerned with getting myself out of this adventure than waiting for James to lead the way. I twisted the knob, feeling a cool crystal-like substance slip beneath my fingers, and opened the door. A twisting staircase led into more blackness.

“What _is_ this?”� I asked.

“It’s a secret passage,”� James said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “No one uses it except the Marauders. We don’t think anyone else really knows about it. By the way, by stepping foot here, you’re bound to secrecy. We can’t have any of the older years coming up here to turn it into the new Astronomy Tower or anything disturbing like that. If you tell anyone, I’ll be forced to kill you.”�

I stared at him through the dim wand-light. “You can’t be serious.”�

“Oh,”� he said, his face lighting up in a grin, “I’m very serious.”� He paused for eerie emphasis. “Come on, then. We have to follow the stairs down. It curves a little, but it’s a very gentle slope, so I don’t think you’ll be very afraid. It ends in a portrait just outside the seventh year boys’ dorms…”�

He trailed off as he began to make his descent.

Taking one last quick look around the curious room, I closed the door and followed him. Though I didn’t know it then, it would not be the last time.

* * *

“What _was_ that room, James?”� I asked as we stepped into the common room, looking perfectly innocent, curiously without a speck of dust on either of our persons. “It was downright strange. What is it? Why do you go in there? Is it some kind of Marauders secret?”�

“My, my,”� James raised his eyebrows, looking either annoyed or amused, “you’re just full of questions, aren’t you, Lily Evans?”�

I didn’t know how to respond without being rude, so I settled for biting my tongue and flushing a light shade of red. I scolded myself again for being so rude to someone I barely knew. _He did nearly kill you on that broomstick of his_ , I silently reminded myself, on the other hand.

Before I could dwell on the situation any longer, the common room portrait burst open and the three Marauders burst in with a still-giggly Arabella Figg.

The younger year students’ heads swiveled in their direction, completely oblivious to the fact that James and I had entered at all. 

“You are fantastic!”� Arabella gasped at Sirius. “I could marry you, you know!”�

Sirius smirked at her. “Princess, I don’t marry _drunks_.”�

Remus Lupin let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a scoff and eased Arabella off of his shoulder, pushing her into Sirius’ waiting arms. He gave Peter a glance before scanning the common room for a sign of James, sighing slightly as he realized that he was yet again stuck looking like an idiot in front of the entirety of Gryffindor. Spending time with James Potter and Sirius Black had that effect on a person–that curious, precarious, clockwork effect of always getting yourself into the spotlight in a very unfortunate way. I felt sorry for Remus indeed.

The sandy-haired boy’s eyes found James and I near the staircase, and I immediately realized they were exchanging a Look.

For the first time, I noticed that Remus’ front was messy with someone’s sick. Three guesses who had thrown up.

With a grin, James shot me a sidelong glance. “Arabella’s _all_ yours, kid.”�

And that she was.

* * *

A pause on the third stair of the staircase, Arabella attached to my left arm.

“Lily?”�

I glanced behind me. “James?”�

“I was just wondering. Do you like Butterbeer?”�

“Oh, I love Butterbeer.”�

A strange, awkward pause.

“Would you like to… I don’t know, go get a drink with me sometime, then, maybe?”� A quirked, curious eyebrow.

“I… now?”�

“Well. I don’t know. Tomorrow, maybe?”�

My heart immediately became discontent with the prospect remaining inside my rib cage. Pound, pound, pound. “I… er. I can’t. Sorry. No.”�

“Oh.”�

“I have a–well. I have a date with Lucius Malfoy tomorrow. I already, you know. I–yes. No. I mean, I can’t.”�

“Right,”� James said slowly.

Another awkward pause.

“You should take Arabella to bed.”�

“Right.”�

“Right then.”�

“Good night, James.”�

A lingering glance. “Good night.”�

* * *

I led Arabella carefully through the doorway of the girls’ dorm, the way a mother leads a sleepy child who has become a bit too heavy to be carried, and pushed her gently into a sitting position at the edge of her bed.

“You’re very drunk,”� I told her, fretfully, as I did every time that something like this happened. “You’re a mess, and I hope you know it, too. You’re going to wake up in the morning and you’re going to have to relive all this in a quick little stitch, and you’re not going to like it very much.”�

Arabella’s bleary eyes blinked up at me trustingly. She’d heard the speech a thousand times before, and she no longer cared. She had no shame in front of me.

It was obvious that her copious consumption of alcohol was finally starting to shut her system down for the night, though I wasn’t sure whether this should come as a relief or a new worry to me. I realized she hadn’t comprehended a word I’d said to her since I’d led her upstairs, and my heart hadn’t been in the familiar words, anyway. Too much had just happened. I was still reeling.

“When you’re drunk, it’s like you’ve died,”� I told her in one last attempt to get through to the intelligent girl I knew she harbored somewhere inside.

Her eyes were wide, but she sat in silence, watching me in her ever-curious way even in the middle of her drunken stupor. She had the oddest way of looking beautiful even when she still smelled of vomit; the rosy cheeks she’d earned from her alcohol made her seem perfect in a maddening way.

I knew I would never be as beautiful as she was. I had accepted it years earlier, but it would always be difficult for me to adjust to. It was hard to be the responsible one–the boring one, the bland one–that turned down Butterbeers in order to take care of someone else at night. It seemed unfair; gorgeous Arabella Figg could drink without regret, could throw up on a boy’s robes and still be found absolutely charming by another, could abandon me for my boyfriend and his pretty liquors and still be taken care of in her time of need, could do so many things that I could never do, would never dream of doing…

I envied her very much. We were fourteen years old and she did exciting things that adults did. She drank, she smoked, she’d climbed mountains and molehills, and she’d seen so much farther than I had. Arabella knew life and loved it and claimed to believe very much in seizing the day, but she didn’t teach me to live like she did, and I resented her for it. A resentment sprung up between us every time that she drank, and as I sat and stared back at her darkly, waiting for some shadow of recognition to dawn in her eyes, I could feel it looming over the both of us like a bat getting ready to swoop.

Somehow, no matter how many times Arabella had to be put to bed drunk, the resentment never fully swooped, and so, in that way, we remained friends.

“Lily,”� Arabella said, her full lips forming my name in an unfinished request. She stretched out her arms in that damned pouty way of hers, expecting me to help her into her pajamas and expecting me to act out the part of devoted friend and confidant. She always appealed to me absolute trust.

I had an impulse to walk away from her, to run down to the common room and perhaps dash up the boys’ staircase two steps at a time, to burst into James Potter’s fourth year boys’ dormitory, to tell him that yes, I would love to go and get a drink with him, that yes, I would love to, I would love to, I would love to get away from here…

But I was looking at Arabella, and she was pitiful and she was appealing to me, holding out her arms with her little fingers wriggling at me as though she wished I could pick her up and hug her to my chest like her mother had once, before she’d died. Arabella was every ounce an intoxicated six year old.

I shook my head. “Okay,”� I said, putting a happy smile on my face so that she could tell I was going to give her the comfort she wanted. “Let me just clean you up a little bit first. Can you sit there for a minute on your own? Do you want me to help prop you against the headboard?”�

“I–I don’t know,”� she murmured with an unflattering hiccup tacked on for punctuation. Sometimes it was almost as though Arabella acted out the part of a giggly drunk; she was strangely full of clichéd hiccups, snorts, and clumsy kisses. I’ve never liked actresses much, and I think it’s because of Arabella.

“Here,”� I held out my hand, “come on. I’m going to shift you so that you can sit up against the headboard. I don’t want you to fall over.”�

She let me shift her body as though she couldn’t move at all on her own, rewarding me with a loving grin for making her more comfortable. That was what I was there for, to make her life more comfortable in all respects, and she was there to remind me of the kind of person I both hated and loved at the same time. She reminded me of what I wanted to be and what I spent every day of my life trying to escape becoming. She reminded me of my mother.

“Lily,”� she said again, this time in a slightly chastising tone. Where was her warm wash rag, she wanted to know? Where were her pajamas and her slippers? Why wasn’t she sound asleep yet?

“I’m going to go get you a wash cloth from the bathroom,”� I told her. “Wait just a minute, and if any of the girls come in, just stay quiet and keep laying down, all right? I’ll be back in a minute.”�

Walking quickly to avoid Arabella’s drunken little stares–as if she could see through my smiles, as if somewhere inside she knew that my heart wasn’t in it, that my heart never had been in it–I fled to the bathroom. Mechanically, I quickly slid open the second drawer on the left and pulled out a Gryffindor-colored wash cloth, dropping it unceremoniously in the sink. With shaky hands, I turned the hot water tap inward and let the cloth soak.

I knew I should pick it up out of the sink, ring it out, make sure it was warm enough, and bring it back out to Arabella as quickly as I could, but I stood there and stared at myself in the mirror for a moment instead. I saw myself biting my lip, fighting those inner evils–a wave of strange sadness clouding my eyes. Sometimes I couldn’t explain why I got sad, why I got so upset, but it was always apparent in my eyes. The spark went out of them when I felt like crying.

I quietly shut the bathroom door and locked it, unsure of what to do next. As the water continued to stream from the sink to hit the cloth and then zoom down the drain, I pressed my back against the door and let my body slip down it until I was on my knees. I stared up at the counter and listened to the water, regulating my breath as it trickled into the sink, and prayed for some sort of absolution. _God_ , I thought, _if you’re listening, I’m here…_  
  
“Lily!”� called Arabella with one of her clichéd actress giggles.

I pressed my fingers to my eyelids, drawing a deep, shuddering breath. I wanted answers. Why was it always me in the bathroom preparing the wash cloth? Why was it her in the bedroom, drunk out of her mind, waiting for me to attend to her whims?

I knew I was thinking bad thoughts. I knew that I was being a bad friend and pettily envious. It wasn’t Arabella’s fault that she was prettier, or that she was more outgoing, or that she didn’t have as many inhibitions as I did. It might have been her fault for drinking too much, but it wasn’t her fault that I couldn’t go out with James Potter. Most of it, in fact, was far from her fault.

That wasn’t the point. I just needed somebody to blame.

* * *

I opened the bathroom door with the warm washcloth in and gave Arabella a large, optimistic smile. “Here we are, darling,”� I said in a cheery voice, overcompensating for my dark thoughts. “It took awhile for the water to heat up to just the temperature that you like it. I’m here now.”�

“Oh, Lily,”� slurred Arabella, “you’re such a good friend. Such a good friend, you know…”�

As I sat down on her bed and pressed the washcloth to her forehead, she gave me a pat on the hand, as though I was a good daughter taking care of her in her old age. I shushed her and pressed the cloth to her skin, hoping to both soothe her and scald her at once, to both calm her and reproach her for her habits. I wondered, fleetingly, what she would do without me. It was a self-satisfied idea that she would have no one else willing to help her; I knew, somewhere deep inside, that it was something of a _compliment_ that I was the one at her side in times like these.

I loved her in a curious way despite all of my misgivings, and though I realized that not everyone cared for her the way I did, still, others would be more inclined to help her than I was–our roommates, the other Gryffindor girls of fourth year, were kind. They liked helping people in their time of need. All of our roommates had so much honor.

I wondered, not for the first time, if I was right for this house, for this _Gryffindor_. I hadn’t chosen to be in it. I hadn’t known anything about Hogwarts when I’d first arrived; I came from the world of Muggles. I didn’t know that witchcraft ran through my veins until shortly before my eleventh birthday, when I’d received a letter by owl…

“I’m so tired,”� Arabella muttered drowsily, a slight frown on her face. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and, for a moment, she looked every inch a tortured Juliet, laying there, waiting for death to claim her and take her away to her Romeo.

“I know,”� I whispered, still smiling my false smile, gently removing my hand from the wash cloth so that I could smooth her hair behind her ears.

“Lily?”� Arabella whispered softly, slurring the two simple syllables together with too much grace.

“Hm?”� I asked, my fingertips straying over a wisp of her dark hair.

But she didn’t respond; she wasn’t there anymore–she was asleep. With a sigh, I removed the wash cloth from her forehead and presented her cheekbone with a lingering kiss.

That was all, that was all, that was all… I was finally done for the night.

I could finally watch the stars.

Welcome to my life. My name is Lily and I kick ass.

* * *

**Author’s Note:** Welcome to the completely rewritten version of Deconstruct! I rewrote the story because I was actually rather ashamed of first few chapters of the original version. I started writing this story when I was 12. Three years later, I’ve grown incredibly as a writer. My style and ideas are more developed and complicated now. I wanted this story to reflect those changes, so… I’m changing the story itself. Love it, hate it? I’m not entirely proud of what I’ve done with this particular chapter, perhaps because I’m very critical of my own work, but I think that the future rewritten chapters are leaps and bounds ahead of what I was doing before. I only hope that you’ll all stick with me long enough to see the new version in its entirety. 1 chapter done, 49 more to (re)write. Cheers!

 **Disclaimer:** I don’t own Harry Potter. :/ That belongs to JK Rowling and Warner Bros. However, I do own the plot, and I do own this archive, so, bah. Steal and die.  >:[   
**  
Dedication** : For Holly (everblue3)–my business partner, my peer, my adoptive big sister, and my very close friend–for all of her snark and her occasional pats on the back. Also for Stacey, who has a hand in almost everything I do, and for Tim, who lies in my driveway with me to watch the stars come out sometimes. For you.

**Production Notes:** I’m rewriting Deconstruct. All of this, as I already stated, is new. I’m staying with the same basic plot and will keep the same basic outline I had before (similar scenes) for the most part. That being said, I’m a Junior in high school now and this year is already hectic for me. I will try my best to upload a chapter of about this size or longer once every 6 weeks. I would like to churn things out more quickly, but knowing me, promising anything shorter than 6 weeks is simply unrealistic. Thank you for your understanding.  >:] If you have questions or want updates about how my writing is going, check out my writing LJ over at http://www.livejournal.com/users/deconstructlj.


	2. Lesser Women

  
**Deconstruct, a Memoir**  
By Solarism  
 _Chapter Two–Lesser Women_

{Brand New — Sic Transit Gloria Glory Fades}

 

 

* * *

I grasped the cool metal bars that surrounded the Quidditch pitch stands, leaning slightly over them to get the best view I could. Below me, seven young men were marching out onto the field, dressed in Gryffindor scarlet with their well-polished brooms by their sides. My eyes zipped immediately to the top of James Potter’s messy head, gaze stuck to his black hair as it was ruffled slightly to the right by the playful September breeze. My own red hair fluttered, but James wasn’t looking at me–he was staring straight ahead, business and competition as usual, with his back straight and his jaw firm. I watched as he marched, second out onto the field behind the team captain, and anticipated a glance from him that would never come.

 

I liked watching Quidditch–I always had, even before James Potter had made the team. I’d never liked sports much as a child. Rugby was always so popular in the countryside near the cottage I’d lived in, with all the rough boys chasing each other viciously about. I preferred to stay on our property, caught up inside our little garden, painting wings onto phantom butterflies or running my fingertips across the petals of daisies. When I came to Hogwarts and tried to learn to fly, I’d failed miserably at it, and that was no big surprise. I’d never been athletic. I stayed away from things like that.

 

Still, I admired the natural grace that the broomstick implied. I liked watching wizards like James soar about playing catch so high up in the air. When we were in our first year, everyone knew that James would someday make the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He was a natural flyer. He’d been playing Quidditch with Sirius Black since their youngest days–whispers of it raced around the common room frequently back then. It was no surprise when he was welcomed onto the team later on–young for a Chaser, but still skilled.

 

Some people now whispered that he would one day become the captain. In all my memory, I could only find indication that perhaps they were right–he certainly had always flown well enough.

 

He looked so professional and upstanding as he strode out now, falling into line in front of the current captain and listening intently with a concentrated, serious face. Sirius, clutching a Beater’s bat, poked him roughly in the side once, but James was too intent to poke him back. If there was one thing that James Potter was passionate about, it was Quidditch. I could see it from the stands. The way he held himself–with his back straight, his face tilted upward, looking so sprightly and alert with every turn of his head–spoke volumes.

 

I wished I could see his eyes.

 

I settled back onto the first bench of the Gryffindor spectator stands. It was not typical for students not associated with Quidditch to frequent team practices, but I had wanted to come in part to watch James Potter fly again and in part to spend some time alone before I had to ready myself for the evening’s festivities. I was going to a party that night. I was going to see Lucius Malfoy.

 

Completely alone but wrapped up in a warm Gryffindor scarf, I watched as the team mounted their brooms and soared into the air, tossing playful comments to each other almost as frequently as they tossed the Quaffle. It was interesting to watch the three Chasers–James Potter included–toss the ball back and forth so rapidly, as though they were playing a child’s game of hot potato. Sometimes they would purposefully throw it too low or too high for their teammates to catch, and the Chaser closest to the ball would have to urge his broomstick up or down at lightning speed to retrieve it. James laughed as a dark-haired boy tossed the Quaffle at least three meters to James’ right, but he was soon on it, catching it easily and sending it soaring back to someone else.

 

Meanwhile, the Seeker captain had unleashed the Snitch and was zooming around, scouring the skies for the little ball of gold. In his search, his eyes met mine from far away and he frowned. The team captains preferred to keep their practices as exclusive and secretive as possible, always paranoid of rival teams out to steal plays or send information back to their unscrupulous captains. I quickly looked away from him, wrapping my arms tightly around myself and hoping he wouldn’t fly down and ask me to leave.

 

After a few minutes, it became apparent that I would be left to my own devices. I resumed watching the practice as freely as I felt comfortable with, eyeing Sirius Black and James Potter almost equally. I watched the former smash Bludgers daringly and the latter prove his skill as a Chaser again and again with every catch of the Quaffle.

 

The first match of the season was less than four weeks away. Fleetingly, I felt that James must be inwardly thrilled to be playing again, after a long summer not at Hogwarts…

 

It occurred to me again that he and I had had extremely different childhoods. It was impossible to assume that he missed school during the summer months as much as I always did. He seemed hardly out of practice for Quidditch, indicating he’d played at least a few times over the summer. _And_ _why shouldn’t he?_ I mused. _He probably has ample land for it… protections of all sorts with no Muggles to spy on him… With Sirius Black and Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew undoubtedly over for the holidays, racing him and trying to lap him with their own broomsticks, laughing and playing and chasing as all boys love to do…_

__

Sirius hit a Bludger with such a loud crack that I was startled out of my train of thought.

 

At the sound of the crack, the Chasers zoomed higher into the air and spread out, taking turns ganging up on one another and trying to intercept the ball. They moved in complicated formations following no set pattern that I could discern, flying quickly and competently. The two Beaters had flown close together to talk, looking rather bored while occasionally swatting away Bludgers when they came near.

 

I wondered vaguely what it would be like to be out there, flying with the rest of them, suspended in midair. Would I take risks and do loop-de-loops as James had proven so fond of?

 

Who could say?

 

As I stared upwards at the Chasers who zoomed about and rounded on each other and then on the team Keeper, something compelled James Potter to look down my way. Though distant, I could make out the faintest of smiles on his lips as he looked. He raised one hand in silent greeting, and I looked back wide-eyed, unsure of what to do.

 

“James!”� shouted one of the Chasers.

 

He quickly looked away from me just in time to catch the Quaffle and send it spinning away toward the Keeper. It had almost hit his chest.

 

As he went back to playing, I took advantage of his preoccupation to pick up my satchel and make my way down the stairs of the stands. It was too cold to be outside, I reasoned, even for a September afternoon. As I descended, I watched my feet and wondered what shoes I could wear to the party I was going to that night. I had a dress–a cream one–but I need shoes, and I hadn’t thought…

 

“JAMES!”� someone screamed in delight. “YOU DEVIL!”�

 

I jerked my head up and realized James had caught the Snitch himself, holding it triumphantly in his gloved hand for the Seeker to see. Everybody had stopped practicing to watch and laugh as James wiggled his eyebrows and muttered something inaudible to his fellow Chasers. Whatever it was, it was apparently something very amusing, because everyone laughed again and the Seeker snatched the Snitch away with a roll of his eyes. He gave James a light punch in the shoulder and zoomed off to release it again, presumably somewhere far away from James’ reach.

 

Satisfied I’d seen enough for the day, I left.

  
* * *  


I placed my lips on the hard glass of the bottle and tilted my chin upwards, delighting as a rush of the hard amber liquid chased its way through my mouth and down my throat, lost somewhere between those first few drops and the impulse to close my mouth before I choked. I ran my tongue over the opening, sucking the taste away from it and from my lips, engrossed in my own intoxication. I was thinking of the way that James had flown and the way he looked in that Quidditch uniform, so high above us in the clouds, and the way that he had glanced down at me–just like that, just so simply–and smiled.

 

It was nice, sometimes, to be noticed.

 

“Hello, you,”� Lucius Malfoy said almost on cue, sliding onto the couch next to me. He pressed his back against the fine white silk, his shaggy white-blonde hair falling smoothly against the top of a pillow. He was always like that–so fixedly comfortable in everyone’s presence, so refined in his black suit. He always wore suits to his cocktail parties. He looked like a mobster. He looked irresistible.

 

I turned and smiled at him, setting my bottle down on a frosted glass coaster. Without a word, I shifted my cream-colored dress away from him and kissed him hard on the mouth, engaging him in a simple battle of tongues in place of a proper greeting. That was why he was with me. That was why, despite my youth and despite his power, he coddled me. It was because I kissed him like _that_.

 

He cupped my chin in his large palm and edged my mouth off of his, swallowing the taste of my liquor lips in evident enjoyment.

 

“Hello,”� I said.

 

“Why, Miss Evans,”� Lucius said, gray eyes bright from the kiss and from the gin, “you never cease to amuse me.”� He ran his hand fleetingly over my cheek, studying me briefly with approval, and then turned his away to signal a house elf for another martini. He was so particularly fond of martinis–two olives, not one, and served to him on a glass platter as quickly as possible.

 

My eyes strayed down his chest as the house elf bustled over to serve him. Though he was impeccably dressed, I longed for the warm skin of his bare chest. I wanted, momentarily, an embrace. Surrounded by all of our friends, I knew it was an impossibility that he would show such proof of affection–Lucius was always so careful about our relationship, so painfully aware of my blood status and how much beneath him I was by birth. Malfoys did not generally date Mudbloods, as he had informed me without ceremony the night of our first kiss. I had been thirteen then; he had turned 17 barely the week before, and so many years and so many galleons my senior, had felt as alarmed by it as he had felt gratified.

 

Instead of a hug, I contented myself with his deep whispers so close to my ear, broken periodically by a sip from his fresh martini. He discreetly leaned inward, sitting very close, and pressed his lips and hot breath to my earlobe, teasing me and preserving the privacy of our conversation at the same time.

 

“Do you see Severus Snape there?”� he asked, gesturing ever-so-slightly with the hand that held his martini. I glanced toward the stiff antique chair near the bookcase where Lucius gazed. I nodded as my eyes met the shadowy figure of the Slytherin boy who sat in it. Recognition made me flinch. I knew Snape well; he was the archnemesis of James Potter and the most prominent Potions student in my year. Yes, I saw Mr. Snape quite well indeed. I whispered something scandalous into Lucius’ ear, rolling my eyes ceiling-ward, quite aware of my own cruelty towards the boy.

 

Lucius laughed indulgently and said, “Don’t be naughty, precious. Severus comes from a family rich in blood. He doesn’t look it, but at one time, the Snape family was almost as prominent as the Blacks are at present…”�–his eyes strayed around the room–“…that loathsome friend of Potter’s excluded, of course. I have it on good authority that before his parents dirtied the family name, Severus there was the heir apparent to a great deal of his old grandfather’s fortune.”�

 

“And now he’s cut off, is he?”� I asked in a whisper, letting my lips graze Lucius’ earlobe. “Parents or no parents, I don’t see how anyone would leave a great deal of money to someone of such unbearable…”�

 

Lucius nipped me on the lips with a kiss as sharp as his smile. He whispered back, “See the girl standing there by the window? That one is Dolohov’s. I haven’t spoken to Antonin since his graduation, but they’re engaged... My father writes me weekly to tell me the news from the outside world. Apparently, the two became engaged rather–ah, unexpectedly–last summer.”�

 

“Much to the distress of Mr. and Mrs. Dolohov, I presume?”� I retorted.

 

“I believe the words Father used were ‘exquisitely displeased,’ but then, Father exaggerates at times when he thinks it is in my best benefit to bear witness to the ungodliness of such marriages. The way he writes to me at times, one might actually think he believes that you and I might one day…”�

 

“…Fall in love and marry?”�

 

Lucius tilted his chin back and laughed heartily, as though I’d uttered the most splendid joke he’d heard all evening. “Oh yes,”� he said quite audibly. “A strange man, my father. Such queer foresight he believes he has!”�

 

I looked down at my lap, which was covered so simply with a cream-colored gown that might almost pass for a wedding dress. _What a stupid color to wear to a cocktail party_ , I inwardly told myself. Lucius didn’t appear to notice its color, and instead placed one hand heavily on my knee. He looked at me, face lit up in enjoyment, waiting for me to toss him some witty retort. 

 

I could not oblige.

 

His smile dimmed perceptibly, but he continued on nonetheless. “Well, anyway, you know how protective my Father is of our bloodline. He doesn’t understand the type of relationship that you and I have. He thinks it’s serious. He goes out of his way to warn me… But really, Antonin’s marriage to that girl–”� he gestured with his martini “–is of much different stuff. I expect I’ll be invited to the wedding. It’s set for June, after we graduate…”�

 

His eyes flicked toward me, as though he’d momentarily forgotten I was several years younger in addition to having supposedly filthy blood. He took his hand off of my knee and drank a long sip of his martini.

 

“This girl’s grandmother was a half-blood. You know how questionable that sort of lineage is these days,”� Lucius continued, glancing at the girl. She was tall and dark-haired, discussing something apparently very amusing with Sirius Black’s cousin, Narcissa. They glanced once our way, mouths slightly open. Lucius met their gazes with a dip of his head and a slight wave, and they both quickly turned away, giggling to themselves in embarrassment.

 

I, for one, felt very uncomfortable. “Mmm,”� I mused.

 

“Do you see that blonde twit that the girl’s talking to?”� he murmured, leaning in close to my ear again.

 

“Yes,”� I replied.

 

“Her name is Narcissa Black. My father is working to arrange an engagement between her and myself, if you can believe it,”� he laughed lowly, sending waves of heat into my ear. I glanced sharply at the blonde girl, who was beautiful and rail-thin. “I’ve told him that I’m too busy and good-looking to settle down so soon after Hogwarts graduation, but Father is such an insistent man.”�

 

“Oh,”� I said. “But you might– _marry_ –her, then? That girl over there?”�

 

Lucius cupped my chin gently in the palm of his hand. He studied my face for a minute, his eyes meeting mine. With an elegant swoop, he kissed me firmly on the lips. “Don’t worry about who my father thinks is suitable for me at present,”� he said. “I am quite happy as I am, and though things are wont to change, you needn’t fret at the moment. I am with you, for now.”�

 

Somehow, I just couldn’t reconcile his momentary devotion with my unwavering love for him.

 

I kissed him lightly on the jaw, took his hand in mine and squeezed it, and then, without warning, stood up. I had had quite enough of being insulted for the night. “If you’ll excuse me, Lucius,”� I said, raising myself to my full height and letting go of his hand. “I am feeling rather ill tonight and I think that I must retire to the Tower before my headache worsens.”�

 

I glanced around looking for Arabella, and found her looking rather bored as Regulus Black–Sirius’ younger brother–talked at her with enthusiasm. She met my eyes with a silent plea, but I looked away. “I trust that you’ll see Arabella gets back to the dorms at a respectable hour?”� I asked Lucius.

 

“Of course,”� he replied. “I’m sorry that you’re ill, precious. Can I send anything with you to make it better? A martini? An olive? No? Well. Are you sure you can’t stay?”�

 

“I’m sure,”� I said.

 

He laughed, stood up, and kissed my forehead. “You are so prone to headaches,”� he whispered. He kissed me once more on the lips before I pulled away and said my final goodbyes.

 

Head held high, without a second glance at Arabella, I made my way toward the portrait entrance and left the Room of Requirement. As I climbed out, I looked back to have another glimpse of Lucius, but he was already talking to Narcissa Black. Their hair was the same color–his boyish and on the short side, hers long and in curls. They looked rather nice together, I thought, and I hated them for that.

 

With a shake of my head, the portrait closed behind me, and I was left alone in the hallway.

  
* * *  


I threw a stone into the water and listened as it plopped unceremoniously into the murky depths of the Hogwarts lake. He was going to marry that girl–that Narcissa, that cousin of Sirius Black’s–because I was too young and too poor and because my blood didn’t come from a line of most ancient and noble wizards like _hers_ did.

 

I threw another stone in, more vehemently. What did having “pure blood”� prove anyway? Lucius hated James Potter, and the Potters could trace their lineage back countless generations… The Potters had more exceptional magic in their heritage, more revolutionary spells patented to their surname than any other family–perhaps even more than the Blacks. Everyone knew that. Yet, somehow, even with all of his blood and kindness and riches, James Potter wasn’t good enough for Lucius Malfoy, either. He wasn’t good enough for anyone at that cocktail party, except maybe me.

 

What point did that serve? Where was the logic in that?

 

My thoughts were interrupted by the presence of someone close behind me. I whirled around, frightened, but was greeted only by the sight of a rather red-faced Arabella. She stopped mid-step to look at me.

 

“Hello,”� she said, her voice far too light for the blackness of the night. “I followed you out here. I hope you don’t mind… I saw you were leaving and seized the opportunity to disengage myself from Regulus. He talks an awful lot of nonsense for someone so young.”�

 

“Hello,”� I said, turning back around with a sigh. “No, I don’t mind. Not really.”�

 

“What are you doing out here? It’s cold,”� she asked, stepping next to me and rubbing her bare shoulders. She wore a long, simple pink dress, strapless and without a mink wrap. Arabella was too poor for furs, but too elegant to make it seem as though it bothered her to be without one in front of people like Lucius Malfoy and his friends.

 

I glanced at her. “You can go inside,”� I said. “I’ll be in a few minutes.”�

 

“Just thinking, then?”� she asked with a bright smile.

 

“I suppose,”� I shrugged.

 

“You’re thinking about our darling Mr. Malfoy, aren’t you?”� she asked, the smile clinging to her dewy lips. “He did look so handsome in that suit, but then he always does. I can’t for the life of me imagine why he insists on white silk couches though–we’re not _Parisian_ …”�

 

I rubbed my hands together slightly. It was rather cold. “Yes, well,”� I replied. “I expect he imports them from France all the same. He’s very interested in impressing people. Not that I can blame him, of course–he has half the Black family to accommodate.”�

 

“I saw him speaking with Narcissa after you left,”� she said, her voice rather soft. “They get along rather well, wouldn’t you say?”�

 

“I don’t know,”� I said.

 

“I’ve heard rumors, actually,”� she continued, “concerning the two of them. I’m sure he’s told you all about it, in detail and everything, because it really is ridiculous. The Prophet ran a gossip column last week–there was something in there about Malfoy Senior and his plans for–”�

 

“–Yes, I’ve heard, Arabella. Thank you.”� 

 

We remained silent for a minute, each of us standing by the edge of the lake and trembling half from the cold and half from the effort of trying not to move. I took a deep breath and prepared myself to make some excuse about heading back toward the Tower, but before I could begin, she broke the silence first.

 

“You are such a selfish being,”� Arabella said softly. “You love him only because you have the comfort of never having to fear that he might love you back.”�

 

“That’s far from the truth,”� I said, my eyes prickling with sudden disgust. “You act as though you’re quite familiar with Lucius–enough, dare I say, to reprimand me and to claim to know his feelings. Well. No one knows his feelings, not even he, himself.”�

 

“It’s a fine thing to defend yourself,”� she replied, staring down into the water. The gardenia she wore in her hair that night rustled gently in the breeze. She put her hand to it, securing it, before proceeding more tentatively. “A fine thing indeed to defend him, even, but know first what you’re defending, Lily. He doesn’t love you. He can’t.”�

 

“You don’t know that,”� I snapped, looking upward as the fine wisps of clouds passed slowly overhead. The moon, big and bright, fairly drowned out the shine of the stars.

 

“For Heaven’s sake,”� Arabella laughed mirthlessly, her voice low and grim. “He’s a child! He’s a child and you’re younger than he is. He can’t love you–he’s been far too spoilt, become far too self-interested. Can’t you see that? You’re a silly girl if you can’t.”�

 

“I’m a silly girl, then,”� I said simply, containing my indignation as I grasped the hem of my robes. She didn’t know what she was talking about. She didn’t know the fine details of our relationship. She didn’t feel the way he kissed me or the way his fingers grasped the small of my back when my lips grazed his neck. Was that childish? Was I a child, then, if I could make him sigh with want into my mouth?

 

“You might think that these feelings are love, but you’re only being self-righteous,”� she said, nudging the very edge of the water with the toe of her boot. “I’m only telling you so because I care about you, you know. You act so stiff when I approach you about it–evidence, if nothing else, that you know what I’m talking about.”�

 

“Your evidence is my disdain?”� I asked her, turning angry eyes toward the side of her face. “The only reason I act so stiff is because I cannot for the life of me imagine why my best friend insists on attempting to make me so utterly unhappy.”�

 

She paused, soft, pale shoulders squared. For a pensive moment, she said nothing, looking far off into the distance. I followed her gaze, restless. The moon could not penetrate the mist that floated so heavily across the water. I could see nothing of importance out there.

 

“God,”� I said, and kicked a pebble.

 

“Where is your friend Mr. Potter tonight?”� Arabella asked without missing a beat, acting as though I’d never said a word at all. “I haven’t seen him since dinner. I half expected to meet him when I followed you out here–he has been so obligingly friendly lately, hasn’t he?”�

 

I shoved my fists angrily into my pockets. “I don’t know where he is.”�

 

“Hmm,”� she mused. She tucked a curl behind her ear, stealing a blank glance my way. I purposefully avoided her gaze, staring straight into the mist instead. There was nothing out there. There was nothing to say.

 

“I like James Potter,”� she said. “He’s a nice boy. A good boy. He comes from a good family and he keeps good company. Sirius Black, in particular, is noticeably nice. They were so kind to us last week, weren’t they?”�

 

“Yes,”� I replied shortly, pausing at the memory of my flight with James. I could still feel the form of his body pressed to the front of mine.

 

“I imagine I made quite an awful fool of myself. I’m so sorry that they had to see me like that. It’s a terrible way to make one’s acquaintance,”� she smiled, clearly not sorry in the slightest. She turned to smile more broadly at me. “Come, Lily. Let’s not fight. You know I can’t stand it when you’re angry with me. I shouldn’t have mentioned Lucius. I’m always saying the wrong things, you know… You know me…”�

 

I looked at her rigidly, with half an inclination to walk away without a word, but hesitated, wondering if she would say anything more. I expected the start of some new lecture, some new and nasty reprimand.

 

Instead, she took my hands in hers and pressed them gently. “I do mean well,”� Arabella insisted, a little more hesitantly. She gave me a strange look, emotions shifting unabashedly in her dark brown eyes, and pulled me closer. “I only mean to look out for you. You’re my sister because I have none by birth. You’re my family here. You’re the only one I know.”�

 

I sighed. “It doesn’t matter,”� I said, acquiescing as simply as I could. “It doesn’t…”�

 

Before I could say another word, Arabella stood on her tip-toes and precociously kissed me on the forehead, silencing me as though with a hot iron. She jerked away quickly, eyes wide, and looked at me with her lips parted. I looked back at her in full.

 

“Let’s go to bed,”� she said, suddenly and–perhaps for the first time in her life–rather ineloquently.

 

I gave one long nod. She turned, not waiting for me, and began to scurry over the pebbles and grass back toward the castle, evidently in a hurry to reach the sanctuary of Gryffindor Tower before me. I followed more slowly, not really wishing to walk with her and not really wishing to be alone. She looked back once and waved, giving me a funny smile before speeding up her pace and pulling farther away from me.

 

It was always like that with us.

 

Always.

  
* * *  


Friendship amongst young women is a painstaking, ruthless bond most often forged from tears, concealed opinions, unforgivable first impressions, shared interests in men and flowers, and, occasionally, a genuine companionate attachment.

 

My friendship with Arabella has always epitomized all of these things in a flourish of incomprehensible togetherness. In many ways, she and I have always _epitomized_ the pinnacle of girlhood–we are made up of petty things, jealousies and hurts, unfettered devotions, beliefs and passions, loves and memories. We touched on one another selfishly. When one of us was at her most beautiful, by rule of girlhood, the other of us must have been at her worst completely in a sort of teeter-totter of give and take, of envy and self-sacrifice.

 

One of the most beautiful shames that life has ever produced is the ability for two people to love each other with such unconditional compassion and yet hate each other so bitterly for want of the other’s talents. Girls, self-interested and tactless, are masters of just such a craft, using and exploiting it to the best of their abilities, shameless and wide-eyed with curious innocence as they test each other and breech the unspoken contract of timeless togetherness. The process is infecting. It’s intoxicating. It’s reality.

 

Many a night, Arabella, calling me quite summarily an awful bore, gave me a look of pure distaste and repulsion. She announced that if all I wanted to do was sit around and read those terrible books or write those boring little poems I was always on about, I had better just do it on my own, because it was useless trying to convince her to do it along with me. _She_ , she said, preferred artful things, with a twist and a pucker of her lips. Thus, she would dance, if I didn’t terribly mind. I sat on the floor, too wary with the clear recollection of so many similar nights to protest, and watched her.

 

And when she danced, she had sparkles in her hair, little false diamonds that she’d secured with bobby pins earlier at some unknown hour. They were there as she moved her hips so fluidly, arms up and elbows crooked, twirling this way and that with her wrists turning back and forth in time to her inner music. Little false diamonds were so like her, so blatantly characteristic that it made me sick to see them, tiny attention-grabbers imbedded in her waves of dark hair. She moved softly and gracefully in all the ways she’d tried to teach me years ago, in all the ways I’d never mastered, and she hummed to herself, perfectly pleased just to be dancing, to have me watch her, to be young and fresh and loved. She loved to be loved, Arabella, so passionate about epic romances and liquors and all other things supposedly unattainable to a girl of sixteen, always imagining herself the perfect candidate for affection.

 

The senseless self-centeredness of youth strikes in the most unfortunate of ways.

 

I would lean my back against the wall, slightly drunk, and watch her move, the little silver anklet on her foot clinking slightly every time she turned. She had a habit of dancing on her toes, doing soft, unconscious pirouettes, as though she’d missed a wonderful calling as a ballerina. I never envied her feet for the morrow. Then, that was Arabella, dancing there, beautiful and epitomizing grace, lending smiles to the clocks with false diamonds in her hair, never minding my presence except that it kept her from being alone, tracing footprints unashamedly across the wooden floorboards. What else was there? There was painting and there was James Potter, but in the end, neither mattered much when one watched Arabella and the way she looked on nights like those. Life seemed poignantly meaningless and profound at once. She did that to me without ever having to utter a word. Teenage girls can do that to everyone.

 

“Mmmhmm mm,”� Arabella would murmur, little angel ankles closing together and moving away again, close in front of me and then farther distant. I would watch her a moment longer, watch her dance in an attempt to realize the faults I was sure must somehow manifest themselves, before turning my cheek away and staring only at the corner of the room where the floorboards met the wall. Smoothness there if not in the angles of her body, I reasoned dimly, and pressed my palms hard on my stretched out, exhausted legs. It was so easy to love Arabella, so easy to hate her. 

 

I chose to turn the other way.

 

Nights are always so similar to that when one is young and feminine. That night was Arabella’s to bask in, to flirt with, to tease, to use against me in that underhanded yet plainly evident way that all girls have traces of. The next night would be mine to do the same. It would be me and my art, or me arranging the daffodils in their vase on the windowsill, and Arabella would watch and think awful things, unsure of whether to love me or despise me for my talent at pushing the little flowers around just right (such a simple exercise in uselessness that she would undoubtedly grow old being envious of). There, quite plainly, is girlhood. She would turn her cheek, hesitating on the brink of one emotion or another, and look to the corners of the room for guidance and comfort. I would cease to think of her, would barely remember her false diamonds and the way her anklet clinked as she danced, and there would be nothing but contentedness in my smile as I did what she couldn’t. I would love it, love every second of it. I would love it mostly because she hates it, and she would hate it chiefly because I love it. 

 

That, though unflattering, is simply how girls work.

  
* * *  


**Author’s Note:** I am the queen of pretentious prose. Gah. I don’t like this chapter. I’m not satisfied, but there it is. I can’t do any better right now, so this will have to do. Sorry. :( Oh, and yes, this story is AU, because I started writing it before OotP even came out. Thus, we have a witch Arabella Figg and a Lucius Malfoy still at Hogwarts while the Marauders are there. Oh well. If the plotline and character relationships seem infeasible at present… I can only hope that they’ll get better as I go on. *shrug* This chapter is also a lot shorter than the last. Incidentally, most of the chapter lengths will vary, but I’d say a good average is about this length from now on.

 

**Disclaimer:** I don’t own Harry Potter. Harry Potter and all affiliated entities are copyright JK Rowling and Warner Brothers. I do own the plot, so please refrain from blatantly ripping it off.  >:[

 

**Dedication:** For my boyfriend, Ryan, who is my very own James Potter… and still for Stacey, who heard all of this first.

 

**Production Notes:** Okay, I give up. I have no set update schedule. I might update by the end of December or I might not update until Easter. Lynch me all you like, but I can’t do anything about it. Junior year is a killer and I don’t have the time between school, my newspaper, my boyfriend, my friends, and running UR to do much leisure writing. It’s unfortunate, but… please know I’m still here and I still love you guys. I just can’t even attempt to give definite time estimates of when the next chapter will be up. When inspiration strikes me and when I have the time, I’ll be back. I’ll always be back. For those who miss the old Deconstruct, please don’t tell me so when you review–instead, view this as a whole new story and take it as it is. To read the old Deconstruct, head over to my website at http://solarism.unknowableroom.org. I’m going to begin posting chapters there today, and that, if nothing else, will be regularly updated until I get up to chapter 29, where I ended before. Thanks.


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